


Towards the Light

by Caidyn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gender Issues, M/M, Physical Abuse, Sherlock AU, Teenlock, Transphobia, Unilock, ftm Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 18:56:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caidyn/pseuds/Caidyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has always been different. Seventeen and in Uni is just one of those things. For his while life he's never felt right in his body; the frills and dresses never quite worked the way Mummy wanted them to. But even when he finally decides his fate in life is to become a he, he's met with problems on all sides.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just putting it out here, that this is an ode to myself, a way of reminding myself that no matter what adversity you're going through that hope will come through. I'm writing this for myself and I won't be changing that up anytime soon.

“Freak! Why the hell do you dress like that? Do you want to be a boy or something?”

Those biting remarks sliced into Sherlock Holmes like a hot knife sliced into butter. He growled under his breath, picking himself from the ground where the two older boys had beaten him down to. There was a bit of blood that he wiped away with the back of his hand. The backpack was heaved over his thin shoulders once he looked back at them, seeing how they were high-fiving like five year-olds when they were really two years older than him.

“And what if I do,” he shouted, attempting to make his voice sound deeper, more intimidating than it was. Usually when he shrieked at someone it was high-pitched and he hated it, wanted to claw at the vocal chords that he was cursed with. “Does it truly concern you?”

When they turned -- both were rugby players that were far bigger than him despite how he’d been attempting to put on muscle weight -- he stood taller, eyes hardening as he realized that today he definitely was going to get pummeled by them.

“Yeah, it actually does. Because what you’re born as, is what you’re supposed to stay as. Wanting to be a boy when you’re a girl is a freak move,” one said, moving closer towards Sherlock. Shorter than him, but he definitely could win this battle with the amount of muscle he had.

“And didn’t you say that it was wrong to have sex with someone of the same sex,” Sherlock shot back, making his last ditch attempt at getting him to go away. “I do remember you saying that but yet, here you are, shagging your little buddy over here. I can see the bruises and bite marks on his neck. Dominant one, aren’t you? How intriguing. So if you lay a finger on me, I’ll tell everyone about what you do in your spare time.”

The bully’s face turned a number of colors -- Sherlock’s favorite was a mix between purple and red -- while his friend only had wide eyes. All he could say after that was his proposal hadn’t worked. Fists rained down on him, attacking each little place they could get so in the end he was only protecting his face. Those self-defense classes he had taken were out of his mind so quickly that he knew he needed to retake them so he’d be able to actually do something next time around.

Within moments they were gone and he was gasping for air. It entered his lungs once he sat himself, feeling the bruises already forming. His legs were unsteady, swaying under him as he attempted to just stand. Sherlock determined quickly that nothing was broken, he was just going to have to deal with various degrees of bruises for the next week. Just as he was starting to walk forward, an arm was under his arm, gripping it in a controlling way that made his eyes burn as he turned to see who it was.

Blonde, shorter than he was, kind and deep blue eyes. He was on the rugby team as well. Newer, just transferred to the school from another. It was his third year, just like Sherlock’s. Except Sherlock was seventeen compared to this man’s eighteen or nineteen year old self. How interesting. Not really. He blinked once and tuned into the man’s voice and the concerned look on his face.

“Hey, are you alright? Can you hear me? Alright, good. Do you need to go somewhere to get help? What’s your room number?”

Sherlock pulled his arm from the man’s hand, breathing out slowly and shaking his head. “I’m fine. I just have to go to my dorm. And, for your information, I can get there myself, now bugger off.”

He watched the man’s face pale, mouth popping open and eyes widening very slightly. Shock? Surprise? Over what? Sherlock wasn’t in the mood to guess because he couldn’t breathe very well and he felt as if he was going to fall over soon from lack of oxygen. Not good way to prove he was fine, was it?

“Shit, you’re a girl. Come on, let me help you get back to your room. I’ll report them to a teacher, alright? God, they got you good. Is there anything I can d--”

“I’m not a girl!” Right away Sherlock used the last of his remaining strength to shove the stranger away from himself, glaring still as he began to hate this person as well, along with all the others at this place that was just as ignorant as everywhere else he’d been. “And don’t you dare talk to anyone about this or you will have to find a very good way to avoid me.”

His voice was menacing and he watched as the stranger did look taken aback for a moment before nodding his head a bit, obviously just going with it so he didn’t have to get yelled at anymore than he already had been. “I’m John Watson,” he slowly said, “I just want to take you back to your dorm so you’re not wandering around looking like you’ve just got the life kicked out of you. Can I at least do that?”

The younger waved his hand absently, swallowing hard before sucking in air. That hand went over his chest, pressing over where the binding was under his loose shirt. “Yes, you can help me get to my room. After that I don’t want to see you again. I’m at 221B in the Baker housing.”

John nodded his head and this time put his hand on Sherlock’s back, carefully leading him in the direction without being overly pushy. Better than having his arm gripped tight enough that it hurt more than it already did from how it had taken many of the blows after he’d curled up on the ground. His feet trudged across the familiar path, into the building that was run by Mrs. Hudson.

She wasn’t there at her desk, probably off taking some kind of break. Not that he blamed her; he could barely stand being around his “peers” and he was around their age. John paused in front of the door, knocking before his roommate opened the door and made a face at his appearance.

“Sherlock,” she scolded, pulling her long brown hair into a ponytail. “Do you always have to come back here looking like this?”

“It’s in my nature Molly,” he replied shortly before walking into the room, sitting himself down on his bed to breathe in deeply while she started getting things out to bandage him up for the millionth time. Simply was some ointment that made bruises heal faster, a metal spoon, some bandages, and swabs to clean blood away if it was needed.

The girl turned towards John and held the spoon out to him. “Will you run this under some cold water in the restroom over there? Just until it gets really cold. You can leave after that.”

Molly tripped over her words, the poor girl. By the end she was a blushing mess with a spoon held out to him while Sherlock watched absently as he attempted to breathe. It was getting worse by the moment, making him almost gasp each time. Perhaps he had bound too tightly this time around. John glanced over at him then took the spoon before leaving the roommates to each other.

“What happened this time?” Exasperated voice, tired sounding. Of course she was.

“Some blokes decided to beat me up.”

She sighed and went over to him, kneeling down to quickly start taking off his usual jacket -- black and it had an expensive feel to it -- then started on his buttons with pink spreading across her cheeks still before he could even think of protesting.

“I told you about binding too tightly. It’s bad for you, Sherlock; remember what I said about it bending ribs or cutting off your breathing ability? I really don’t want to see you hurt.”

The wide brown eyes focused in on him, causing a feeling akin to guilt go through him. Lovely. He hated her doe eyes. They made him feel bad. And because of them his arms simply lifted with barely an eyeroll as she began unraveling the Ace bandage he had put around his chest that morning. Once it was all off he cupped the dreaded breasts to try to flatten them back down and keep them covered from prying eyes.

At least he was a bit modest when a man he barely knew was staring wide-eyed with a spoon in his hand that was dripping over the floor. Molly took it and started rubbing it over the darkest bruises that were already forming. Cold tended to get the blood to break up faster, which meant the marks wouldn’t be around for as long as they could be.

He heard the door close and someone rest against it. “Is there anything else I can do,” John asked, stepping forward before seeing the look on Sherlock’s face and going right back to leaning against the door. “I-I mean not that--”

“You can start cleaning up my cuts if you really feel the need to butt-in more than you already have,” Sherlock replied, closing his eyes.

The floorboards creaked as John did come over and opened up the packages with fumbling hands before starting to swab over certain areas that were more bloody than other ones. Sherlock knew those had most likely scabbed over already, but he wasn’t going to say anything about it. Keeping quiet seemed best for Molly was about to burst.

“How long has it been since you’ve eaten last,” she questioned, looking at him with pursed lips before pressing the cold spoon to his cheek.

“Ah!”

He recoiled from the touch and glared at her before muttering, “Last night when we went to dinner.”

“And it’s about three in the afternoon. I know you want to keep your weight down, but you need to eat.”

“Why aren’t you eating?”

The simple enough question came from none other than John Watson who looked more confused than ever before.

“If I stay at a certain weight, I won’t have a menstruation cycle, or as you all better know it a period. I’ve never wanted one and as soon as I figured out how to keep it away, I jumped at it.”

“And what about the health risks,” he questioned further.

“I’m healthy. Molly makes sure I continue to eat enough that I have nutrients and can continue to run.”

Promptly after, he fell silent, staring off into space as Molly continued to hurriedly work as if her life depended on it and John worked slowly, almost seeming as if he was figuring something out. He was soon bandaged all up again, Molly smiling as she placed the last thing and wiped her hands off on her typical skirt that had no taste to it whatsoever; even he could tell that she most likely had gone with what someone else had said to wear when picking it out.

“How about I get you a salad,” she offered, voice turning upwards at the end in an extreme question. Always a question with her.

“Yes, that’d be nice. My wallet’s on the table over there. Go ahead and take it with you.”

She nodded her head slowly before walking out, the black leather wrapped around in one nervous hand. That was when his eyes went to John, sweeping over him slowly. One arm went over his chest to cover it all up before holding out the now free one to him. “Sherlock Holmes,” he coolly stated, introducing himself at last.

“I figured that out,” John slowly replied, taking the hand and shaking it firmly. “Does that happen to you often? What those blokes did to you before I came up?”

“Define often.”

“I mean, do they do that to you two times or more a week?”

“That’s far more clear than the vague word of often. But, yes. More than twice a week. I don’t expect it to get any better. It’s been happening since secondary school, even earlier than that when I think back on those times that everyone call simple, but I call a living nightmare,” he muttered under his breath, knowing that he sounded far too aloof for the subject.

Sherlock stood after his speech, snatching the Ace bandage from the floor to turn his back from this man he still considered a stranger so he could do himself back up but in a looser way so Molly would nag him again.

“So they do it just because or...?”

“They do it because I’m different. They don’t like the way I dress, say it makes me look boyish.” His face fell after those words, hating how deep they still cut into him despite how he knew they shouldn’t matter. 

Passing was all that mattered to him since he had the luxury to try.

“That’s bullshit!”

Sherlock’s head turned to focus on the man, eyebrows raised at the sudden exclamation.

“Sorry, but it is. You can dress the way you want and be the way you want to be. No one has the right to tell you something that you’re just supposed to be able to do. That’s everyone’s right and if you want to dress like you do, then go ahead and dress like you do.”

He topped the statement off with motioning at Sherlock’s body as he finished up with the bandage and reached over to get his shirt back on.

“It’s not just about clothes, it’s about feeling right in one’s body. Being misgendered is the worst feeling in the world, but you’ve never felt that. A strong man like you would never be mistaken as a girl. Except when you’re like me, it happens on a daily basis right when you speak. And I’m a boy, no matter what anyone tries to convince me. I’d appreciate it if you saw it as such, just as I do.”

John slowly nodded his head and smiled a little, teeth showing and small little dimples appearing on his cheeks that one would see as incredibly endearing, Sherlock was sure. “I’ll see you another time, Sherlock Holmes. And if anyone ever does something like that to you again, come and find me. I’m in the Mill housing, just a few buildings from here. My room’s 493. Bloke’s got to stick together.”

He reached out and tapped Sherlock’s upper arm with his fist, causing him to look at it before up in his direction. Trying far too hard to make him feel like one of the bloke’s but falling short thanks to that over-trying.

“Yes, of course,” the younger slowly replied, nodding his head as he pulled on the shirt that hung off his body just enough to cause the small lumps that the gauze couldn’t hold back to seem as though it wasn’t even there. He smoothed down the shirt at his waist as he heard John leave.

Alone, he laid down on his bed, staring up at the ceiling with a blankness in his eyes that would frighten most people. He wasn’t going to talk to this John Watson fellow who probably was just doing this to make himself look better than his teammates who had done the deed that left him bloody and bruised. Sherlock sighed softly as Molly came back in and put the food on the bed beside him.

“Do you want me to tell my dad that you can’t work tonight? I can if you want to, I mean that is if you want me to tell him at all. But even if you do, you can forget all that I’ve said and now I sound like an idiot and I can’t stop rambling.”

She sat down on her bed helplessly, him turning his head to see that blushing face he had grown used to over the years of rooming with her.

“No, I’ll work tonight. Might as well so I can get a bit further on my fund.”

Understandingly, Molly nodded her head, crossing her legs before leaning in as he opened up the salad she had gotten for him. It wasn’t his favorite but it would do for now until he decided to find something he would like better. “He was good looking,” she murmured, smiling wide enough that the corners of her eyes crinkled.

“I guess so. Do you want me to see if he’ll date you?”

Another, deeper, flush went over her cheeks. “No, no. Of course not. I was just saying, he’s good looking. Do you think so?”

For a moment he thought about it, picking up the plastic fork that came with the meal and stabbing a bit of lettuce that was there. He brought the food to his mouth. When he finished chewing and swallowing he said simply, “I believe so. Nice facial structure, kind personality. Anyone that someone popular would want in a boyfriend.”

Molly nodded her head slowly, watching him as he continued to eat in that absent way while his mind moved to something else that was far different from the straightforward thoughts of gauging how attractive a person was.


	2. Chapter 2

It was early in the morning when Sherlock rose. He didn’t bother looking at his clock to see the time. Each night it was late to bed and early to rise for him, a habit which took some out of him. In the darkness of the room, he dressed so not to disturb Molly, who wouldn’t be up for hours after he had left. The ACE bandage was tight around his chest as he walked as quietly as he could to the bathroom. The only option there was girls, so he just wanted to get it over.

In the hall he noticed that it was very dark outside, darker than how it usually looked. Close to dawn in that case. Barely a star was in the sky, causing him to smile a little. This was his favorite time of night, definitely something that he could watch for hours on end and never even feel bored like he usually would from staring at the night sky.

The bathroom was empty, his footsteps echoing off the walls. He always enjoyed the noiseless time and how no one was judgemental during it. Sherlock undressed, feeling no fear that idiotic people would steal his clothes to ridicule him and try to prove that he was a girl since he had the typical female parts. The warm clothes were huddled against his chest as he walked to the back, his usual stall there that was perfectly out of the way.

He set his clothes within sight and automatically turned the water on blazing hot, hot enough to turn his skin red on contact. There was the generic liquid soap and two-in-one shampoo and conditioner that was placed in all the stalls in case someone didn’t have something. Sherlock relaxed thanks to the water that burned him and the repetitive motions of washing his hair and body. Wasn’t too long until he was finished, but knelt on the ground. His arms wrapped around his bent knees, tugging them closer to his chest. In return, his back rounded, which sent waves of relief through his always sore back.

Soon, tears moved with the water, making it easy to forget they were there. Sherlock stayed on the ground until the hot water was cool against his angry skin. No one was there yet despite how the sun was up. He reached a hand up and turned the water off. A shiver passed through him from the sudden cold. Getting up, he stood off to the side and dried off with one of the provided towels before dressing and leaving the room.

From the windows dotting the walls, he saw the sky. The soft yellow of the sun turned the sky a baby blue with a matching baby pink that threaded its fingers through the blue in soft tendrils. Clouds were more of wisps in the sky, barely illuminated with the light. Lavenders were slowly swallowed up by oranges that grew more and more common as the sun rose higher in the sky. Sherlock breathed in as deeply as he could manage.

If he were a poet, he would write about all he saw.

Molly wasn’t awake yet -- it was barely after five-thirty after all -- so he gathered his things up quietly. All his textbooks were gathered up in a backpack that always felt heavy. Perhaps that was a sign he should go to the school gym more than he did for things like fencing when they had practice.

The girl on the bed didn’t even stir as he walked out to go to the breakfast hall. Large and empty, perfectly quiet, was that place in the morning. His footsteps echoed once again from the walls as he staked out the best place for his and Molly’s breakfast. It was by a window -- paned glass with a criss-cross design in it -- that took up most of the wall. Outside it, there was a sidewalk. No one was there just yet. He stared outside for a few moments before pulling out a few things he wanted to work on.

All it was, were a few pages of music sheets. He drew on the treble clef and put in the time signature in the handwriting only he seemed to be able to decipher. In the silence, he felt music bubbling into his head from where he kept it locked away so not to deal with it all the time and began to compose, allowing the notes to take over him completely.

Since the age of four, he’d played the violin. Mummy had wanted to have her baby play something pretty to compensate for the ugly personality it tended to have. But, he enjoyed playing and composing. He even had chosen to minor in music to get a better understanding of it. With two majors -- Criminal Justice and Chemistry -- that minor was a perfect relief throughout the day.

The music flowed, allowing him to expressing things he just couldn’t on a day to day basis. First crying and now music. Already he could tell it was going to be more than one sheet or even two for this piece. Multiple parts even, a harmony, melody, and bass. More than that even, perhaps a part that mirrored the harmony or bass but at different notes.

Emotions poured on to the page, creating an ache in his chest that wasn’t caused by the bandage around it. Yes... that was it. Crescendo up to the climax of the piece and then...

“How was your morning?”

Damn.

The chipper voice of his roommate had never been so annoying to him. Right when he had been in the midst of a piece that definitely would take time to be at the same point he had been out. Damn her.

“My morning’s been fine,” he answered,shuffling his things together so they could be easily be shoved in his backpack that he’d find in the next few months. “And yours?”

There was a pleased sm on face as she pulled her hair up in a ponytail. It was then that he looked at her. No typical “mom jeans” -- he’d learned that term through people talking about her -- or t-shirts with kittens on them. Lipstick, a light pink that almost matched her natural lip color. Then a corduroy skirt that daringly -- daring for her -- went up to her knees and what looked to be a white button up shirt that was tucked into the aforementioned skirt. Shoes were no different -- white sneakers that didn’t have a stain on them -- but everything else wasn’t.

What had gotten into her?

“Have you eaten yet?”

“No,” he answered with a furrowed brow at her appearance, “I’m not hungry.”

“You’re never hungry. Now, how about we split a cinnamon bun? I want one this morning and I think the sugar would do you some good.”

He didn’t even get a chance to answer for she left before he could.

Sherlock couldn’t help but sigh as he sat there. Now he heard the loud voices from people who were in the hall, their voices bouncing around the room to only increase the volume. Annoying. He hated all of them for taking away the blessed silence.

Molly came back with that cinnamon roll on a plate and two forks. It was a small one, he noted, but had extra topping on it. She set it down with a nervous smile at him, cutting it in two, pushing the slightly bigger piece towards him. Once again, damn her.

“Doesn’t it look good,” she asked, obviously going for idle chatter. Extra nervous as well. Sugar wouldn’t help with that. “I expect you to eat all of that. I don’t want to worry about you passing out in one of your classes.”

“That only happened once,” he grumbled, lightly touching his half with his fork and only getting the goo back on it.

And she’d never let him live that down since.

He picked up the fork to please her, beginning to eat what was his. At least some of it would get taken care of while he’d find a way to get rid of the rest. It was good, bread soft and had the perfect amount of spice to it, icing creamy and so sugary it hurt his teeth. Molly seemed to enjoy it as well judging by how she scarfed hers own compared to how slow he went, trying to taste all he could.

Already, he saw the icing getting to her; her hands quaked with a slight tremor that no one would see unless they actually _looked_.

“Why are you looking so nice,” he asked, taking his third bite that he processed before looking more closely at her. She blushed as she now slowed to take more respectful bites. “Lipstick, skirt. Trying to dress like me?”

His joke was lost on her.

“I just felt like looking nice,” she answered softly, ducking her head down to bite on her bottom lip. “Do I look okay or is there something wrong with the clothes? Is the lipstick too much?”

The quickness of her nervous words made him blink once so he could have that respite to catch up.

“You look fine. The lipstick is a good color and makes your mouth look... less small.”

Her cheeks colored and she fiddled with her hands.

Had his words been too sharp? But, now was his time to take care of the food he didn’t want to eat. Sherlock picked the plate up to hold near his chest.

“Done with the cinnamon roll?”

The faint nod was his cue to leave.

Sherlock turned and left before she could change her mind, head straight to the place to put plates and silverware.

“Hey, freak!”

His head turned to look at Sally Donovan who was with a couple of her friends, Helen Millwater and Caprice McMann. The head, Donovan, stepped forward, those chocolate colored eyes going over his body. A sneer came upon her face after a few moments.

“Could you look even more manly,” Helen asked, flipping her light brown hair over her shoulder. “I’m sure a dress would look good on you. But I think you’d have to shave first. No one wants to see those hairy armpits in that.” A high pitched laugh followed it that penetrated the air and got Donovan to heartily join in while Caprice only joined in lamely when it was necessary.

McMann was the one he focused in on, his eyes boring into her mint green ones. Her tan skin flushed a light pink then promptly she said in a nervous but loud voice, “It’s not worth it. We should go.”

Donovan looked at her curiously with her perfectly shaped eyebrows furrowed while Millwater gave her a look of unadulterated hatred for that suggestion. But, they agreed and went off as a group.

“I’m going to go to the library tonight,” Caprice said as she walked away.

“With who,” McMann inquired.

“Mary Morstan. She’s going to help me with a speech.”

“You’re always with her,” Donovan interjected. “Hope she’s not your girlfriend.”

It was a teasing statement from Sherlock’s perspective, but poor Caprice colored a bright red and stuttered out, “No! No, I mean no, it’s not that at all. We’re friends, like you, me, and Helen.”

Sherlock could scarcely imagine the conversation that was to be had over the rest of Donovan, McMann, and Caprice’s breakfasts. He chuckled at his imaginations and shoved his hands in his pockets as he his turned back to the trash cans and the women taking the dishes to be washed.

That was when he froze.

At the table he hadn’t left more than a few moments ago, a new person was situated there across from a blushing Molly. Did John Watson not know when he wasn’t wanted? And this made more sense to why Molly had dressed up today, to make that impression on John.

Angrily, he blew air from his nose in silent disapproval. His jaw clenched next, the hard muscle standing out sharply. If he had more muscle than the scrawny thing with a dreadfully girlish body beneath clothes that hid it away from everyone.

“What are you doing here?”

Those were the first angry words he said in the direction of the rugby player. They weren’t going to be the last if he had anything to say about it.

“You’re in my spot,” he snapped next. “I suggest you get up.”

John didn’t argue as he moved over to a seat that was open to the left his chair. Sherlock settled down in his chair, crossing one leg over the other to bob his foot up and down aimlessly.

“I was just talking to Molly. Might as well check up on you while I’m here. Seems the bruises are a bit better,” he murmured in a patient voice, leaning in a bit while Sherlock backed off.

The younger teen didn’t want to be touched, especially by this bloke. John was the type who liked being nice to be everyone. How dull. Sherlock grabbed his backpack for something to hold. It stayed in his hands for a few moments before he opted to get up. The heavy thing went over one shoulder.

“I’ve got to go to class. Continue talking to Molly. From the looks of it, she’s about ready to jump you.”

A low chuckle and a gasp followed him.

It was an easy guess to who did what. He already was walking to his first class where he’d basically be on his own with minimal professors telling him what to do. All he did in the class was create a hypothesis towards the beginning of the semester and by the end he would figure it out. The whole final was writing a paper about the whole process.

Advanced Chemistry classes were always the best.

Only problem was the people in it; one of his main harassers was in it. Damn Anderson with that long black hair that went to his jawline and the pale skin that looked a tad healthier than Sherlock’s. Not to mention that nasally voice. All things that made his teeth grate.

Sherlock walked into his class. A couple other people were in there at their normal stations, working on their own silly things. He went to his, pulling out things that he’d be needing for the day.

His hypothesis was what chemicals could naturally increase, or decrease, white blood cells the most over a span of time. Lofty thoughts but he might use the information gathered for his own free-time experiments. Take the two that created the most and test them together at different ratios.

The station he was at was right in front of Anderson’s, to the right side of the room. Sherlock had a theory that their professor had seen the dislike between the two of them and took it upon himself to try to fix that. So far the professor had done nothing but break up fights that almost had come to blows and scold them as if they were toddlers.

No huge incidents happened during the class period that day, save for Anderson bumping into the table with a smug look on his face. Sherlock had been taking a sample to check under the microscope how it looked. Luckily nothing had spilled.

The bell rang for dismissal. Packing up, he left to go meet Victor to assist him with fencing. He was one of those rare people who was kind to him. Part of him guessed that the man might want to be friends with him. That wouldn’t happen if his girlfriend, Elizabeth Hamley, had anything to say about it. The redhead didn’t like him all that much.

Victor was waiting for him at their usual place, outside near the gym. He had all the things they needed, things he’d be the one to put back since that was their agreement. They shook hands, Victor’s hazel eyes giving the appearance of a wide smile just like the one on his face.

“Can we practice defensive moves,” Victor asked, smiling wider if that was possible and leaning forward as if he was an excited child. “I want to get better at that since I think I’ve got offensive down.”

“Yes, of course,” he answered.

Sherlock put on helmet that covered his face nicely, Victor following in the same fashion. Swords were in hands. They were good to go.

He was the first to attack, lunging forward in a movement that was slower than how he usually went. They continued that way, Sherlock hitting Victor with the point of the sword -- covered by a plastic ball of course -- whenever he misjudged.

By the end, they both were drenched in sweat and out of breath. Victor pulled off his helmet, usually loopy curls now in ringlets around his face. “Thanks mate,” he said with a breathless smile. “I’ll see you here in a couple of days.”

That earned him another smile before Victor walked off. Sherlock picked up the helmets and swords, heading back to the storage unit for them. From there, he took a deep breath then decided he was going to be brave today.

Instead of going to his dorm to hopefully shower where no one would be, he went towards the men’s locker room that was far closer than his dorm. From either door, men on one side and women on the other, people were coming out. 

The men’s door opened.

He slipped in.

It smelled like sweat and cheap cologne. Disgusting, but he definitely wanted to come back for more. Sherlock breathed in slowly as he passed through the people, head down so he could stay unnoticed by the men who were in various states of undress.

There was a stall open tucked into the corner, just where he liked going to shower. No one was really back there, making better. Shoes were slipped off along with socks before stepping into the shower. He stepped into the stall and glanced around before beginning to take his clothes off.

“What the hell are you doing in here?”

His head shot up and his eyes focused in on John, who stood there with only his pants on.

“Someone said they saw you come in here, do this way, and I didn’t believe them so I came back here. You’re going to get hurt if you stay in here.”

Before Sherlock could protest, John was picking up his clothes to show into his arms. He averted his eyes as he pulled them back on. At once, John was leading him from the room with a few snickers as he was taken out. Didn’t seem that John cared much he wasn’t wearing anything else.

When Sherlock was out of the room, he was ready to hit John or yell at him, but soon his shoulders were gripped tightly and the rugby player leaned in nice and close with severe eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

“Do you have any idea how _stupid_ that was? Do you really,” John hissed, causing Sherlock to sharply pull his face back. Someone threatening him wasn’t something he enjoyed much, yet it happened far too often for his liking. John continued on, “They were already planning on what they were going to do to you. Alright? Don’t go back in there, okay? Promise me. It doesn’t matter what time it is at all. _Never_ go back in there.”

Sherlock blinked once.

“What if I have someone with me? Safety in numbers as they say,” he smartly murmured, icy eyes glued to the man’s face that was more intense than he believed it should be given the situation.

“And who would go in with you? Last I checked, you didn’t have any friends that were men. Only Molly. I doubt she’d do that for you even though she’d do anything else for you, anything at all if you just gave her the time of day,” John scoffed.

Another blink.

Sherlock turned, ripping his arms from John’s grasp. He stalked away, down the tiled hall with people who barely glanced over at him. They didn’t look until he heard someone following behind him his long strides, their feet slapping the floor from the heaviness of their steps as they tried to keep up.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” John now said.

Nothing. Sherlock didn’t speak as he walked, knowing the older teen was rushing to keep up with him even as he went at his normal pace. He had the upper hand. That flush of power was something he enjoyed. The lull between them remained until they were nearing the end of the hall. John still was practically naked after all. One simple step and he could be free of him, but he wanted to have the last word.

“And how else am I supposed to take it,” he snapped, “Yes, I get it. I don’t have friends. No need to rub the metaphorical salt in the wounds. Molly is there, I understand that.” He winced when he realized his voice had grown shrill to show the anger he felt.

Breath in.  
 _One, two, three, four, five._  
There, calmer.

“Shove off.”

That was how he wanted to end it before he made some mistake, such as striking out or more piercing words. Hold it in. Don’t allow it to escape. Head slightly higher than it should be given the terrible feeling in his chest, he walked away from the blond who seemed taken aback by the outburst.

Next class was going to start soon according to the time at the closest advertised clock. Literature was up. An easy class for him since he had read all the books the professor had said they were going to read throughout the semester. It was a habit for him to write or doodle music in the margins of his books, so he typically turned in the book as was and received a decent grade on the annotations. Then, he read up on Sparknotes on the book’s plot while he counted on his mind to remember the fine details.

He trudged to the class, a well used copy of The Hunchback of Notre Dame coming out of his bag once he had seated himself at the back corner of the class. The book was one of his favorites, quickly followed by Peter Pan. It was very well marked in and he hoped for a good grade this time around.

Few people filed in after him, going to the rows in front of him rather than near him. On the board seemed to be two prompts, short statements to either agree or disagree with concerning the characters in the story. The professor sat at his desk with papers to grade out. Clearly a timed essay using one prompt of their choosing. Typical and child’s play for the genius in the back row.

He glanced around the room to spot Mary Morstan -- a girl with dirty blonde hair, olive toned skin, and soft makeup on her slightly full face. -- and Elizabeth Hamely -- Victor’s girlfriend; flaming red hair pale skin, hazel eyes, and round glasses towards the end of her nose -- sitting side by side, whispering to each other. Elizabeth regarded him upon spotting his unabashed stare, glaring before Mary looked as well, elbowing her friend with an apologetic look to him.

It was his turn to turn away, quietly getting out a few sheets of loose leaf paper. Bell rang from the front of the class -- this professor had bells he rang to signal they were beginning. Sherlock had been right about the essay when the teacher began explaining. That meant he had a head start, which he needed, while the man at the front explained the process to the dolts ahead of him.

Sherlock started writing, forming his argument with points from the plot and descriptions provided by other characters. He took in a deep breath to narrow the path his mind went down. The bell rang once more, signalling that their time had started.

Right when he finished the final paragraph, the damn thing rang a third time, causing him to wince at the sharp sound that resonated in his ears. “Pass them up! Next class we can go over them after we have a quiz over the reading you’ve had a week to do! I’ll be able to tell if you haven’t read. Go on and leave.”

Despite how Sherlock asked for the people in front of him to take his paper, they continued talking -- looking out from the corner of their eyes towards him -- then walked away completely.

Breath in that was followed by him walking up to the front to hand the professor his paper, corners folded to act as a simple staple so the papers wouldn’t fly everywhere. Right when he opened his mouth, assignment outstretched, the professor commenced a lecture at him.

“Miss Holmes, I said for you to hand it up through the row. I shouldn’t be taking this from you since you didn’t follow my explicit directions in the first place. Writing a _timed_ essay before the time starts? Most of your professors would throw you out. Since it’s the first time you’ve done that in this class, you’re getting a fifty out of one hundred. Be grateful for my kindness. Do it again and you’ll earn a zero.”

The papers were snatched from his hand and slammed down on top of the already great stack, causing Sherlock’s papers to flutter around thanks to the lack of a staple. Lovely. Teeth gritted, he watched as the last one slipped off the desk, spiraling down to the floor to lay facedown.

“Apologies,” he stated, choosing the passive aggressive route over being blunt about his thoughts. Denial over what he had done wasn’t something he could do in this case. It was clear the professor wouldn’t accept the fact that he hadn’t been able to pass it up and if he had he would have done so. The two in front of him would vehemently deny their involvement.

The professor’s hand waved him off in that way that made him more exacerbated than before. Sherlock could feel his upper lip twitch in that pure warning sign of the lightning before the thunder. His sound was contained as he stormed out to hustle towards another class.

Abstract Algebra.

That class made his head flip flop like a fish on land for the answers he still got earlier than everyone else. This was the last math course he needed to take for graduation requirements. Of course he had chosen the hardest one, the one that was almost hell with how it made his mind change the way it thought. He enjoyed it at least, especially since he grasped the course very well; with all the problems thrown at him, he hadn’t failed once. 

Ms. McGee favored him above all others in the class. It was a known fact. Not a bad thing at all to have as one of the protection points he could use at any time. Sherlock sat in the front of this class and listened to the lecture given. This was one of the classes he had to pay attention to and if he didn’t, he was sure his and Ms. McGee’s relationship would be different.

The lecture began around where they left off last class, him taking out his notes to copy down the practice problems on the board they would do to count as notes. His pen twitched after solving it himself, watching to see how he had done when she finished it herself. Correct and he could now just do the rest since he understood.

Glancing around, he saw how confused everyone else seemed over the topic. Sherlock looked back and doodled on his notes the song that he had started all those hours back, the rise and fall in the melody that overtook him.

The class was over in what felt like moments. Homework was assigned, which he wrote down so not to email Professor McGee once more for the assignment. It was something he did often enough to know she would, eventually, get tired of giving it to him.

He had a bit of downtime between his next class. Sherlock walked to his dorm to find it void. Molly either was in class or the lunch hall since it was around dinner. Absently, his stomach growled. “Shush,” he muttered at it, “You can wait until later to eat something that’s a bit better than a cafeteria cinnamon roll.” Despite that, it didn’t quiet. This was why he typically didn’t eat breakfast; once his begging stomach had a taste of the good stuff, it pleaded for more like a petulant child wanting a juice box, each denial forcing it louder and more urgent.

Sighing, he reached into his bag to fumble around for his music sheets. On the floor they were spread out, the one he was actually working on right in front of him while the first page was close to his heel. He needed to refine the minutiae in the piece, that was true, and to do that he used the pen he found under his bed.

Again the music rose up to make everything else blur around him. Far better than before in his opinion. Sherlock hummed to himself to keep things straight in his mind, swaying with his eyes glued to the page.

The silence stayed in the room until he finished writing. Sherlock glanced up to look up into the room that wasn’t so empty anymore. “I hope you didn’t sit here and do this all day,” Molly whispered, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. “I remember you saying you had a test in Music Theory, which just ended, and a quiz in Forensic Detection.”

Shit. Shitshitshitshit.  
Missed his classes.  
Last thing he needed.

The pen dropped from his hand to run through his hair that would need a quick trim by Molly within a few days. “I’ll email them,” he simply stated, waving his hand around then to brush away the questions. “Before I sleep.”

“If it’s any consolation, the piece sounds beautiful.”

Another voice. Why couldn’t John just leave him alone?

“He plays all the time,” Molly added eagerly. “If it looks good on paper, it sounds even better when he plays. Even the most simple pieces sound difficult because he makes them so. It’s amazing what he can do. Just in general.”

A blush went to her cheeks, the fiddling growing more pronounced as she looked up to John -- who sat on the edge of her bed, leaning forward ever so slightly -- for approval. “I can’t wait to hear it in full,” was all John said, voice quiet, considering something that seemed important.

“And why would you hear it? It’s not like I would allow you to hear me play anytime soon,” Sherlock snapped, still sore about what John had told him earlier. “I tend to only let my friends hear me play since supposedly they’d like to.”

John blushed while Molly seemed concerned about how this was going now. “I said I was sorry,” the older teen stuttered, heaving a deep sigh. “I got mad and it was said in the heat of the moment.”

“Yes, yes, whatever you say. Don’t apologize unless you truly mean it and I can fully tell you meant what you said to me!” Voice shrill. Stop. _Breathe._ “I’d appreciate it if you were straight with me because I will be straight with you. This time I’ll accept your apology. Next? I’m not so sure.”

“Please stop fighting.” Molly’s voice was timid as she reprimanded them. “I would love to hear your music, Sherlock, because it’s always so beautiful. And I am your friend. Only you wouldn’t recognize that because you can be so _stupid_!” She ended on a sharp note and immediately sucked in on her bottom lip, eyes wide.

Sherlock spoke in a calm voice while looking directly at her, “I’ll be sure to play it for you sometime since you like listening so much. Remind me once I get the piece finished.” He moved around to gather up the papers as he spoke, trying to get them in the right order.

Molly would remind him, he trusted that she would after the times she had done so perfectly just because he had made a simple request.

John sucked in on his cheek, seeming to flounder now that he wasn’t paid attention to. “What’s your song about,” he asked, grasping for something to talk about. But now Sherlock knew he had to he to give some kind of answer.

“It’s a little piece I felt like writing today so I jotted it down before going to class. Picked it back up on my break between classes.” Obviously he had failed at the whole going back to class bit, although he found it irrelevant. 

“Does it have a title?”

“I haven’t really thought of something to name it, honestly. Perhaps I will, perhaps I won’t. Titles aren’t things I typically ponder very often. Some of the best pieces I’ve written haven’t had a name.” Or got finished. Another insignificant detail for John.

“I’m sure whatever title you choose would be perfect for it.”

Flattery.  
Too bad that didn’t work with him.

Molly cleared her throat as she sat there. “Do you want to get something for dinner? I’m a bit hungry and it’s getting late after all. Maybe some Chinese?”

“No thanks, Molly. I’ve got a huge test to study for so staying here longer won’t do me any good,” John politely declined.

The woman’s face fell but she nodded her head then turned back to Sherlock. “Does that sound good to you?” Her light brown eyes were eager and even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn’t turn the poor girl down after that first rejection.

“That sounds lovely,” he murmured. “I’ll take my usual and you can take my card.”

John snorted, earning a glare from Sherlock to hopefully pierce him. Seemed to work since the young man backed off, hands up in a sign of surrender. “See you both later, alright? Don’t get yourself into trouble, Sherlock.”

An eye roll and a sarcastic sneer crossed his complexion while John left. Molly was peering at Sherlock like a curious child, having changed her face from exasperation -- perhaps over his offer of a card or making her go do it? “What,” he asked, tone matching the look she had moments ago.

“Nothing... it’s nothing really. It’s just.. I’ve never seen you talk to someone so fast.” Apparently not nothing. “I-I mean, it took you time to even talk to me like that. It’s funny. Just a little observation.” She coupled that with a sweet smile he knew he wouldn’t snap at.

“Take my card, Molly.”

She breathed through her nose slowly, yet didn’t protest. With a sigh, she took his card from his wallet resting elsewhere in the room and left to go get dinner.

Inexplicably, he was drawn to his music once again. Sherlock picked up the pages to flip through to find the right place to start again. All he did was close his eyes for a single moment to get that rhythm back into his head.

Forte moving quickly to a piano, moving to a quick crescendo then to a perdendo. An empty, hollow tone was the ending of the notes for the perfect harmony. Now he had to hear it played. When he glanced up, he saw the food in front of him and Molly sitting on her bed, absently munching on food as she watched him.

“Does it have a title?”

A tick of thought. “Perhaps. I thought a good title would be On the Nature of Daylight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank tallerthanagrobytree for betaing this chapter! I really appreciate it.
> 
> Secondly, the song Sherlock "wrote" is a real song. I'm not creative myself and it's one of my favorite songs. I highly suggest you look up On the Nature of Daylight by Max Richter.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock _had_ to finish his composition. For weeks it had consumed him and drawn him away from his important studies. Under his breath, he hummed it; on papers, he doodled little parts of it that annoyed teachers to no end; Molly noticed a change and he knew she talked to John about it since he was now over more and more often. Molly denied her involvement in his deduction -- that involved her and him seeing each other -- about that, but he doubted her word.

His yearning to complete the piece led him to do homework late into the night on Friday to clear his weekend for things besides his job he had from early Saturday mornings to noon -- same schedule on Sundays -- at the second-hand bookshop off campus. After working his allotted hours, he went on to the campus grounds to work in the crisp autumn air, hopefully keeping undisturbed.

Only, that didn’t pan out the way he wanted. Thirty minutes later into revising, ensuring all chords were harmonized and he resolved the ending nicely, some ball rolled up beside him. Oval shaped, it was mainly white with a bit of light blue and black encasing the word “Gilbert”. He was about to throw it back when a glowing teen came up to him with that type of grin that looked like their cheeks hurt

“Sorry ‘bout that,” John Watson muttered, grinning breathlessly. “Didn’t mean to have this thrown over at you.” He picked the ball up as one of the other players -- obviously a bit of an informal practice judging by how their were no uniforms, only the “skins” and the “shirts”. “Yeah, yeah! I’ll be back in a second!”

Much to his dismay, John sat down beside him. Sherlock now had to stop copying down the music to new sheets of paper to accommodate this man’s want for conversation. “What’s that,” John asked, gesturing towards the music sheets as he leaned over. Just that threatened sweat to fall from his brow and Sherlock jerked his things away.

“It’s work,” he vaguely explained, glaring at the person who dared touch his things. “Something I’m working on for my time. Now, go out and play with your mates that pointless game of running ball back and forth.” To get John go away faster, Sherlock used on hand to shoo at him.

John was frowning now. Plan to get him away wasn’t a go. “Why don’t you like me,” he abruptly asked. “I don’t know what I did to you and I’ve thought over it. I’ve done nothing but you’re acting like I’ve dealt you the greatest wrong. Molly says that you act like this to people when you’re getting to know them but I doubt that it goes this far.”

That ended and how John looked at him, Sherlock quickly figured John was waiting for me kind of answer. Clearing his throat and shifting himself around, he started. “You’re a bit annoying. I can tell that you’re used to being on most people’s good sides and that this is uncommon territory -- that being, someone not interested in you -- so you want tory to be friendly with me. It’s pointless. Stop trying so hard and I might see something in you I find interesting.”

The silence that hung in the air after his statement was interrupted by the sound of the people lounging around outside, chatting amiably with friends or doing homework while it was still pleasant out. John breathed out sharply through his nose, patting his leg twice with a type of syncopated beat Sherlock took note of for later use.

“Is that what you think of me?” Sherlock nodded. John paused once more, seeming to actually take note of what he said rather than brush it away like most did. “Well, you’re wrong. I’ll see later Sherlock.” With those parting words, John stood from the ground and joined his friends again, all smiling like nothing had happened in the conversation that meant anything.

Sherlock felt stunned, almost like he had been smacked across the face. Wrong? How could he be wrong? He was _never_ wrong thanks to observations that came from a person’s body language, clothing, and even how they spoke. But what had John addressed being wrong? Annoying was true, he would have to ask Molly later to see if she agreed. John’s want of friendship was true also. Yes. He had been right, not wrong. John had decided to say something to pester him to worry over until they met again, which inevitably would happen.

Still, Sherlock was distracted. He fumbled to get his things together again. Outside just wasn’t going to cut it with John too much as a threat for distraction. On his way to his dorm, he stopped by the orchestra room to grab a school owned cello. He knew now to play because of some dabbling in it early in his teens to find a new kind of talent. It wasn’t his favored instrument, but he did enjoy it. Any string instrument tended to be a pleasure for him. The burden was taken upon him to lug it up the stairs to the empty dorm room that was scattered with his things.

He automatically kicked them under his bed, propping the cello up against the frame while getting ready to compose. It was one thirty-seven in the afternoon. Molly was gone, meaning no chance of her coming back anytime soon. Before beginning again he changed into comfortable clothes that hinted he had no plans on going out -- no binding on his chest, a loose fitting shirt he had stolen from Mycroft, and sweats Mummy had bought him that regretfully hugged what hips he had.

Picking up the well-worn pencil he favored, he grabbed up a sheet and set to work.

XXX

“Sherlock? Sherlock are you in here? You weren’t at dinner and I know I’ve been out all day. I brought you back some pizza I didn’t finish up from lunch I had with Mary and Ca--”

She only stopped her rapid words when she saw the glare on Sherlock’s face. Silence broken but he was done with work at least. Now he had been setting up things for recording. It was a rudimentary recording kit, something cheap his parents had bought him after a year of pleading every time he came around, but he adored it. Molly didn’t share his sentiment.

She sighed quietly and put her things on her bed. “How late are you going to be at this? I have a test to study for that I know I told you about.” Her nose was scrunching up like it did when she got angry, causing her to resemble a rabbit.

“It must have slipped my mind,” he absently said, setting up the microphone carefully since he was going to do the violin parts first. That reminded him he might have to borrow a viola; he had to test different sounds for one part after all. “Perhaps you should go to the library to study tonight. I expect I’ll be at it until the early hours of the mornin”

“The whole world doesn’t revolve around you,” she griped. He ignored that comment. Molly turned to look at him sadly before beginning to help him set up. Even if she didn’t like it much, she knew it made him happy. And he wasn’t happy enough in her opinion. “The pizza is going in the fridge. Try to eat something tonight.”

While she turned to leave, her laptop under her arm, he looked over at her again. “Do you think that before you leave, you could go down to the orchestra room and request a viola for me? I think I might need it for a richer sound.” That part had first been written for violin -- as had all of them -- but he had changed as he had gone on, same with the bass part that was better suited for cello. Of course, now he’d have to take a step backwards so to translate that section to the proper viola notes. He knew Molly had given him a reluctant yes so he sat in the chair that would work for sitting in. Sherlock had to pull close the music stand so he could start composing on a new sheet of paper.

The door opened a bit later, but he didn’t look up. No need to if it was Molly bringing the instrument. “Set it on my bed,” he murmured. Now was not the time to break his rhythm. Molly crossed the room with heavy footsteps and set it near the cello before quietly retreating back. “Have a nice time out. I’ll text you when I finish so you won’t have to find somewhere to sleep.”

Only a few moments later Molly cleared her throat. But it sounded deeper than usual. Perhaps she had some kind of cod. Pushing his hand through, he glanced up to see some who wasn’t Molly, John. “Oh, I caught Molly outside your dorm building and she told me to take this up to you. She said she was going to go to Mary’s to study with her and Caprice.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow while looking at John carefully. “You’re going to stay here. You’ve already sat down on Molly’s bed and it doesn’t seem that you’re interested in getting up to leave.”

“If you don’t mind me staying, I was planning on it. I’ve got nothing better to do tonight so I thought that I could stay around to see if what you’re doing is interesting,” John explained with a small, nonchalant shrug. “Do you mind?”

Already today he had dealt with John, so he decided that just this once John could stay around and watch this. “It’s not that captivating, I’ll tell you that much,” he blandly mumbled.

“Everything about you is captivating, so I doubt that.”

Sherlock made a face before picking his violin case up, feeling pleased about the complement. “I’m going to record myself playing a song I composed, the same I was working on this afternoon on the grounds. I require silence while I work or I won’t get a clear sound. Understood?”

John sunk into complacency with a nod of his head. That allowed Sherlock to begin, first warming up his violin before carefully recording all the parts. The same routine went for the cello and viola. No makes were made thanks to simply how focused he was on creating the music from memory. The longest part went to editing the recordings together to create the perfect harmony to show how he felt on the inside, the areas where feelings clashed and pain rang out. The discourse was perfectly shown to how he felt by the time he was finished recording.

His finished product was approximately six minutes long, the parts blended together how he had heard it in his mind; breathtaking and meaningful, sad yet hopeful. The nature of daylight was that darkness was always right behind it. To his surprise, John wasn’t gone when he looked up. The clock was creeping towards two in the morning.

“That’s...” John trailed off, exhaling slowly to formulate words that couldn’t escape his mind. “Brilliant.” The word ended up being simple, but honest in the way it lit up his face when he said it. Those deep blue eyes sparkles with a warmth that came from within. “I’ve never heard anything like it. Does it have a title or have you not had time to think of it yet?”

“I’ve thought some,” Sherlock murmured to make it sound like it wasn’t anything to him. “Maybe about the nature of daylight.” He saved his work on the laptop, beginning to pack up the instruments carefully, reminding himself to give those back before work in the morning.

“Mind if I look at the program you’re using?” When Sherlock waved his hand as permission, John snatched it up. He paid no attention to the noise of John slowly using his laptop as he carefully rubbed the wood of the instruments with a cloth to polish them so they looked just as pristine as they had before he had touched them. Mussing his hair, he saw John smiling to himself out of the corner of his eye.

“You probably should get going. It’s late after all.” Sherlock hated how he sounded a bit shy now. Even his actions showed it; his arms crossing over his chest to purposefully press his small breasts down. The thing that stuck out in his mind was that John -- even after their spats -- had respected his quiet, something even Molly couldn’t do.

John gave a short nod, handing over the computer with the bright look still on his face. “Thanks for letting me stay over here. It was really nice.” He was all smiles after that, an obvious blush on his face that Sherlock didn’t comprehend the emotion behind it. “Maybe I’ll come back here next weekend and you can show me how to use the system you have. Look difficult, but I’m not a real computer whizz.”

“Maybe.” Which was as good as a yes coming from Sherlock.

Soon, he had packed up after John had left, retiring quickly to bed without a text to Molly. It was too late and she had probably found somewhere already. Within a few hours, he was up and getting ready while feeling completely drained. It was far too early for returning instruments so he vowed to do it later. When he got back on campus he had twenty minutes to get to another fencing practice with Victor.

“Apologies for my tardiness, I had to return something --” He had started to explain; he had gone and returned the instruments just to get it over.

But Victor interrupted. “It’s no problem. I heard you were up late last night plus you’ve told me about your job. Besides, I didn’t realize you were such a fantastic string player. That was all you, right? That’s what the email said, at least, but you can’t believe all they say,” he rushed. “But you’re really _very_ good. Have you ever thought about going into that as a profession? You’d do amazing. I’d put money on it.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for having the long wait. Again, I blame my busy schedule for summer, and I hope to update this more often with school giving me a schedule.

“I mean, you are _ab-so-lutely_ brilliant,” Victor gushed, stretching out that one word by separately pronouncing each syllable. “Really, you play very, very well. I think that you could really do something with music as a living. I'm not bluffi--”

“Victor, what are you talking about?”

Sherlock hadn’t a clue what Victor was telling him. The conversation was about the violin, obviously, but he didn’t play in public much; a few times on the street to get some extra money when he had been younger, but that had been years ago, back when he had been probably twelve or thirteen. Then there were times for a class since he was minoring in a music subject. The only things they had together were a few law classes and fencing, nothing on music.

How did Victor know any of this?

The older man looked just as confused. “What do you mean,” he asked, his red-brown eyes furrowing together. “Last night -- well, really early this morning -- John Watson sent out an email to a few people. Elizabeth sent it to me and I know it’s gotten around some. --”

Sherlock tuned out the rest, having heard all he needed to. But, Victor still talked, rushing and going over all that came to mind for complements. All of which, Sherlock ignored since he didn't want to hear things of that kind. When the words ceased, he looked at Sherlock, asking silently for appreciation to what he said.

“Thank you for that,” he only said, not wanting to say more than he had to keep the conversation going about this. “Let’s get ready to practice what it is you’re looking to work on today.

XXX

After the rocky beginning of their practice, it went well. It ended with Victor patting his arm in that friendly way before going off to Elizabeth, who was waiting as she always did. She gave him a small smile and a wave as her own goodbye.

That left him there, packing up things to put away. He wasn’t even sure how to approach this. The whole university wouldn’t know, but a good chunk would. Not only would people be judging him for his life choices, but his music, the most personal thing to him.

Now he had to find John, give him a piece of his mind if he wanted it or not.

Stify, he walked back towards the main buildings. He held a hand to his chest to keep his breathing check; not only was it difficult to breathe because of the wrap around his chest, but from something that made his hands quivver. People would hear his soul bared before them whenever they opened up that sound clip.

At his and Molly’s table in the dining room, the aforementioned woman was sitting, toying with her hair and laughing with John who was there, a plate of food in front of him. That meant it was lunchtime.

“Oh! Nice to see you, Sherlock,” Molly started, cheeks turning pink as she looked at him. Her voice revealed that she knew something was wrong and before she got her chance to say something, Sherlock exploded.

“What you did isn’t right,” he snapped, keeping his voice low so he wouldn’t grow shrill. “Yes, I do know what you did. You can’t hide that you sent off a recording I created for myself, not for anyone to listen to when they want. I want answers and you’re going to give them to me or we’re going to have a problem bigger than we already do.”

John’s mouth was full of food, so, luckily, his mouth didn’t drop open. Swallowing, he set his fork down on the rim of the plate. Already Molly was turning pink, glancing around to see if people were looking at them while Sherlock confronted John. People were, but not for the reason she believed. A few were pointing at him or in his direction. Recognition to his work was spreading and his face attached to it.

“Why did you do it?” This time Sherlock’s voice was harsher, a tone that made him take a deep breath out after. His hands were shaking as he looked at the older man, waiting for his answer.

“Let’s talk about it somewhere else. This really isn’t an appropriate place for me to get yelled at.”

To Sherlock’s surprise there was no defensive hint to his voice. It was soft and calm, almost making him realize that perhaps he shouldn’t have a reason to be mad about this. A silly thought, but he had to hold on to some hope that this was a misunderstanding.

He ran his fingers through his hair, finally just ruffling up in frustration. “We’ll be back,” John told Molly with a smile reassuring her to the core. “Make sure no one touches my food. I am looking to eat the rest of that when I’m back.”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock began walking away. From behind, he heard the legs of the chair squeal across the floor. Soon they were outside, him waiting under a tree that was away from the windows of the dining hall. John stopped in front of him.

“You don’t have to repeat the question to me,” the rugby player said. “But do you want to know why I did it? I’ll tell you if you tell me why the hell you’re so mad at me for doing it.”

Huffing out air from his mouth, Sherlock looked over John’s shoulder for anyone important that could listen in. Only people walking by were there. “I’m mad because that was _my_ music. Not yours. You had no right to take my music and send it off complete strangers. That’s why I’m upset with you and I think it’s a _damn_ good reason to.”

John nodded his head slowly, seeming to actually listen to what he said. It was one of the first times someone really had done that to him. Most said, “Oh, that’s just Sherlock,” or, “Ignore her.” He cringed at the pronoun.

“I see how people treat you, Sherlock. They think you’re a freak, but you’re not. You’re just a kid who’s too smart for your own good and have some quirks that people just don’t understand. I wanted them to see that you’re a person.”

A moment of silence passed before John took a step forward, his voice softer than before. “You’re different. That’s true. But you’re not a freak. I can tell that you have shit going on in your live. Seventeen, in Uni, having a job and two majors. Violin and fencing on the side. You’re keeping yourself busy for some reason. I’m not going to force it out of you, but know that I’ll listen if you need someone. You don’t have to trust me on this, but what you tell me will stay between us.”

Unless it was something illegal, Sherlock knew. But he found an unexpected lump in his throat. A deadly feeling that made him tremble more than before.

“You alright?” Another step forward, now a hand resting on his upper arm. “Let’s go sit down somewhere so you can calm down.”

Sherlock nodded his head, then he was whisked off towards a bench in an out of the way place. Branches from a tree hung low over the spot, people walking by with books hugged to their chests or mobiles out. No one was paying attention to them. They were just other objects on the side line.

“What’s going on,” John asked, the hand still resting on his arm in a more friendly manner. “I promise that I won’t tell anyone. What you say stays between us.”

Somehow, he trusted what John said. Sherlock didn’t know why since he had no reason to believe it. John already had betrayed his trust once, but he knew that saying something small wouldn’t be too bad of a thing. Something small wouldn’t kill him if it got out.

Pressing the heel of his palm to the bridge of his nose, he shook his head. “I’m not going to have some heart to heart with you. I’m not interested in breaking down into tears about things that are complicated in my life.”

“And I’m not asking for you to do that,” John rushed in. “I only want you to know that I’m here and I’m willing to listen to you. Everyone needs to have that person in their life. Disagree all you want, but try to believe me that I can be that person for you.”

“Why are you trying to be my friend?”

“Because you need one, you idiot.” He paused to let that sentence sink in. “Molly says she’s the closest thing to a friend that you have. So, whether you like it or not, I’m going to be around here for you to yell if that’s what you bloody need.”

Sherlock looked down at his lap, his hands resting there with the fingers toying with each other. Fucking hell. John was more annoying than he had thought, and he had labeled him as pretty damn annoying. Still, he knew he wasn’t going to last with how adamant the man touching him was.

“Can I hug you?” The question sounded off hand, a little statement that almost could be ignored.

“If you feel like you have to,” he muttered back.

John grinned at him then moved to put his arms around Sherlock’s bony shoulders. The warmth that came off the rugby captain was more than he knew what to deal with. Those arms squeezed him close and made tears spring up that he fought so hard to keep down. They never saw the light of day, always hidden in the darkness of dawn or midnight.

The tears had wet the shoulder his face was pressed into. John said nothing about it, one hand rubbing his back. The fingers slid over the bumps on his spine. His breathing hitched as he desperately tried to stop himself from being so idiotic. But, he couldn’t. It kept going until he was all dried out and left hiccuping out his excess grief. John finally pulled away and glanced down at the soaked front of his shirt.

“You feel any better,” he asked.

“Bugger off.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” John chuckled.

Sherlock pulled out a few things from the inner pocket of his suit-jacket. A cigarette pack and a lighter. “Take it however you want,” he muttered, the cigarette butt between his lips.

“Bloody hell, now you’re going to smoke in front of me. I’d like it if you didn’t.”

“I’ll smoke so the wind carries it away from you.” Once his back was turned, he wiped at his eyes so the tears wouldn’t dry on his cheeks. Sherlock dragged in on the cigarette while he lit up. Smoke entered his lungs, a calming effect on him.

“So, does this make us friends,” John asked after Sherlock had started on his second cigarette.

“No, this makes you the person I cried on. That doesn’t make someone a friend.”

“Damn, well I’m going to have to try harder to become your friend. Maybe you throwing up on me if you have a hangover will do the trick.”

Despite himself, Sherlock smiled. “Let’s go back to Molly when your shirt isn’t wet and I don’t smell like cigarettes. I don’t know which one she would like worst.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back with this chapter at last. Trying to write more, so don't be too upset with me.

Somehow those good feelings were kept up between the two boys. John would come over whether or not Molly was around -- her days of an excuse were one -- to see Sherlock and talk to him. Surprisingly enough, Sherlock liked it; he had someone to trust, someone to look out for hi, someone who defended him. It was was odd that after so my years of being alone, how quickly he got used to seone being there. He quickly was finding himself missing John when he wasn’t around. Even Molly’s babble couldn’t stop those feelings.

His trips to the shower were growing long between. There almost no need for them when he could spill to John all that hurt him, even things minuscule to anyone else. The best part was that John never told him he was acting ridiculous. Sherlock a feeling that this was as close to heaven as he would ever get.

Come on, what are you doing today?” John was smiling at him, Molly sitting beside them with a glance between the two. Lately she was getting quieter when John was around, far different from when John had first started coming to sit with them. “You can’t just me you can’t help me memorize some medical terms without some sort of explanation.”

“There’s a fencing meet today, meaning that I already have plans. You’re on your own for the day.”

John’s eyebrows raised as he looked at him. “Now, I _have_ to go to that. Over all the time that I’ve known you, I have never seen you fence in a competition. Where is it?” Sherlock shook his head. “You have to tell me. Really, you do. Leading me on helps with nothing now that I need to know about this.”

Their bickering went on like that until Molly finally said, “It’s here and a few other schools will be around for the competition. You can come with me if you really want to see. Sherlock is _very_ good.” She blushed slightly. “I’m sure that he’s undefeated with his matches this season. No surprise there.” Deeper blush. She offered a nervous smile towards the both of them. John was the only one who returned it with a warm one.

“Yeah, I’d like that. Where would you want me to meet you?”

“It’ll be in one of the large rooms so they have enough room. I’m meeting Liz Hamely in the courtyard by my dorm since she knows which one it’s at for sure. You can sit with us if you want.”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. “Who says I want you to come? Perhaps there’s a reason for me not telling you where it’s at, John. Don’t pout at me. I’m just saying that perhaps I had a reason not to tell you about it.” Today was one of those days where he would be tested. Simultaneously, he loved and hated matches; loved because he won them all and hated because, well, John would see for himself.

John’s brows knitted together. “I’m going to come anyways. That’s what friends are for. You’ll have me, Molly, and Liz supporting you. It’ll do you good to have us there.” Yes, perhaps it would be nice as John insisted it would be. Sherlock personally doubted that, but it was still John’s belief that nothing he said would sway him from.

“See you there. I’m going to get ready.”

XXX

John showed up early. Far earlier than Molly or this Liz -- that he had never met -- told him. Sounded familiar, though and he was sure he might recognize her face once she showed up. What he was more concerned about was Sherlock. His friend told him everything, every detail that was bothering him in that current moment since he knew that John wouldn’t blab about it to everyone.

It was obvious to John that something was up with his friend. Sherlock hadn’t wanted him to go to something important to him. One of his passions was fencing after all. That and violin as his extracurriculars. Two things he had seen a few times, not as much as Sherlock toying around on his computer -- presumably setting up a website for a job he said he would begin during their upcoming holiday break.

A consulting detective, as he called it; whatever the hell that really was.

His head turned when he heard two girls coming closer, talking to one another. “I hope you weren’t waiting out here too long,” Molly said. The other girl he immediately recognized. Elizabeth -- the Scot with flaming red hair and a passion for breaking gender roles. She had petitioned for allowing girls on the all boy rugby team. Hadn’t made it, but he had signed the petition for her.

“No, not too long. Let’s get going.”

XXX

“You’re going to do great. You always make our school look the best.”

By now, Sherlock was rather used to Victor showering compliments on him. It was Victor’s way of making him a friend, as John had told him when he complained about how annoying it was. “Yes, yes,” he absently murmured back. The other teams were warming up, the judges getting things ready, volunteers setting up places for their matches, people streaming in through the doors.

Today, the matches were, more or less, a free for all. Matches were set up at random. Once you lost a match, you didn’t play the rest of the time. he knew it was for ranking purposes of players this season. Their team had been training hard for this, to make a good impression, though they knew only a handful would advance to a high standing.

His eyes kept darting to the door as he stretched, looking for the two that were specifically there for him. He caught the fiery red hair first. Elizabeth, who went immediately over to Victor to give him a wish of good luck. Molly lightly tapped John then pointed over to him. The grin split John’s face in two. Sherlock offered up a wave as they found somewhere to sit in the makeshift stands, Elizabeth joining them after a parting kiss to Victor’s cheek.

One of the judges stood and began making simple announcements. Females would be grouped together, as with the males. Female matches would come first, a break for the male while the women rested. The winner would be recorded by the judge at the station and brought to the others. Certain amount of time for each match. First to five points won. In the breaks, next matches would be set up.

It went on.

Then they began making pairs. “Ms. Sherlock Holmes and --” He didn’t listen to his partner’s name. Anger welled up in his gut. Perhaps this was why he always won.

XXX

Could he say something? John knew Sherlock’s predicament and he also knew how much it hurt Sherlock when something like _this_ happened. He could go up to the judges and tell them, of course, but they didn’t seem the type to bend the rules. It just made him so _mad_. Why didn’t people respect other’s wishes of what gender they wanted to be? He guessed people just didn’t care enough.

The way Sherlock fenced was different than what he had usually seen. He had watched him and Victor practice before. Then, Sherlock had always been so graceful and could beat Victor at any move he attempted. The latter didn’t change, but he was far more explosive, going after his partner violently. Terrifying, he had to say.

Sherlock dominated. Anyone he was put against, he beat. It was hurt that fueled him on, that was for sure. It hurt to watch. Sherlock hadn’t wanted him coming for this reason, John knew it. Mor and more people were eliminated, leaving two “female” and two male contestants.

Sherlock won his match. His team exploded as if they didn’t care or know Sherlock had probably hurt each time he had been misgendered. How could people be so ignorant? Still, he clapped with Molly, seeing a hint of sadness in her eyes. She too knew what it would be like after the match; Sherlock would run off to be alone and want nothing to do with the rest of the world.

XXX

John was coming towards him. Sherlock stared at his friend, blank face to hide the pain. People were congratulating him. He wanted them to stop. Taking a shower never sounded better. Might not be early in the morning, but no one would be in there late in the afternoon. His hair was just dripping with sweat. There was a deep ache in the middle of his chest.

John finally reached him and didn’t hesitate at all to wrap his arms tightly around him. Though, Sherlock was a mess, the comfort of a familiar touch was there. Both didn’t speak on the root of the problem, only talking about the matches. No gender pronouns were used besides strongly referring to him as a male. Building him back up step by step.

“I can see why Victor dotes on you all the time. You’re good, but he and I will share stroking your ego,” John teased. God, he knew Sherlock had a big enough ego. He needed someone to build up his confidence more than that. He might pretend to be fine, but it wasn’t true. Made John sick to his stomach that this was the first time Sherlock had multiple friends, as he had confided in him only a few days ago. “But, if I didn’t know he was seeing someone already, I would have thought he had a bit of a crush on you.”

“No,” Sherlock scoffed, his voice going higher than expected. His cheeks flushed further as well. “Don’t even joke about that. It’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking,” John insisted. “He seems to have a crush on you even though he has a girlfriend.”

“Stop, John. Really, it’s not funny to joke about that. i don’t find it at all hilarious to kid about someone having a crush on me. It’s... _impossible_.” 

“Yet, when the impossible is eliminated, whatever remains, however _improbable_ , is the truth.” When Sherlock glared at him, he added, “A genius told me that once and I happen to think that it’s very true. But why do you think it’s impossible for someone to have a crush on you?” They had started walking, leaving Molly behind.

“It’s impossible because it’s _me_ we’re talking about. In case you haven’t noticed, most people don’t like me.” Sherlock hoisted his equipment bag up to his shoulder.

“ _I_ like you.”

“We’re talking as if this is an attraction on a sexual level, not friendship.”

John sighed softly. “There are people who like you in both of those ways. Let’s just go back to your room. We could order in some Chinese and stay in, get you out of that bandage around your--”

“Hey! Guys wait up!” A grinning Victor came running to them. “Sherlock, I wanted to see if you wanted to celebrate with the rest of the team. After all, you won an award for us. The same place I tell you it’s at every time. It’d be nice if you came.” He offered John a small wave before leaving. Sherlock began walking again.

“What was that about?”

“Nothing. Just something they do whether we do well or badly. A bit of a get together with alcohol, the team, and whomever else gets invited or hears about it.”

“You should go.” Sherlock scoffed. “I’m being serious. Could be some fun getting out to celebrate the victory you took from the hands of the undeserving. They have these things for rugby, too. Always guaranteed a laugh over the people who get drunk.”

“Yes. Oh so hilarious to watch others get wasted, as I’ve heard it put.”

“Actually, it is. They do stupid things. That really is always a good laugh, especially when you need one.” In John’s opinion, Sherlock really needed one. After the stress of being misgendered, who wouldn’t? “Consider it. I’ll come over around the time it starts to see if you want to go, too.”

John placed his hand on Sherlock’s upper arm for few moments. Fine. He’d consider it if it was this important to John. He parted ways with John -- he still needed to study for his upcoming test -- and took a shower. No tears, just a chance for him to calm down. He looked down at himself for the first time in a long time. All the parts a woman would have, but it was odd to him. Foreign. He reached a hand over to slide over the side, feeling part of his breast and, something far more startling, the way his ribs dipped in where the ACE bandage rested almost all day, every day. 

Swallowing hard, he knew he wouldn’t tell anyone about that. John would freak out and try to get him some medical assistance. His parents would, no doubt, be contacted and they would tell him he was an idiot for doing this, that they knew he was only doing this to harm himself, that he should just go back to therapy -- even if the therapist agreed with him and believed he should continue on with his plight to be a male -- so they can fix this up.

God, he needed to write a song. Something more challenging than any of the string instruments he knew. Piano. He settled in his dorm room, changing into some sweats and a t-shirt, leaving the bandage off for now. He didn’t want to do any more damage than he had to since, with all of his research, he knew that the health of his body determined whether he could get certain surgeries.

Molly was still out, so no distraction coming up. He found some more blank music sheets. He had nicked some with John. While he had talked to his professor about something for class, John had actually stolen some. By now, he was sure, his professor knew what had happened. Not called anyone out on it, but the paper had been moved to a less accessible area.

There was no title for his work as of yet. He was branching away from On the Nature of Daylight, no matter how much he wanted to write a piano part for that. He needed something new, rather than stick with something he knew would work with the amount of people who had approached him after hearing it. Still blamed Johor the unwanted and unneeded attention put upon him. For now, it was just nice think of a tune that had come into his head only a few days ago.

It had been so long that he had thought of music in the sense of a piano. To compose, it was a needed instrument. It was the base of so many other things. Sherlock ignored Molly coming in. She saw what he was doing, and decided silence was the best with him in this mood.

The repetition of the main tune was simple, growing and adding depth with the lower notes that played the back-up. Sherlock hummed the tune under his breath, plugging in the different dynamics that brought the story to life. Key changes. An ever hopeful background to it, though the low notes kept dampening it. With this mystery person, he yearned for whatever it wanted. A crescendo that only dropped off to soft, light and airy notes that conveyed the true wish.

He turned his head when someone else sat beside him. John, of course. Looking actually prepared to go somewhere. The party. Sherlock needed to change. At least his hair had dried and he wasn’t covered in sweat anymore. John didn’t look too disappointed about his appearance. “You should probably change, unless you’ve decided you’re not going.”

“I haven’t changed my mind. I’ve just been working on something.” John took the piece of paper. “It’s for piano,” Sherlock explained, “I thought it would be good to brush up on my skills there. Sooner or later, I’m going to have to for my music theory class.”

“Once it’s done, I want to hear it. And if it’s anything like your last one, it’s bound to be good.” Handing it back, he stood, going to Sherlock’s closet. His and Molly’s clothes were carefully separated, though it was obvious whose was whose. John pulled out a pair of slacks and a purple dress shirt. “Change into this.”

“You’re being picky about my clothes.” Sherlock took it anyways. He glanced over to the door to see it was closed and just began changing right there. Might as well, after all. He was quick about getting the bandage on so John wouldn’t see how his ribs were morphing. Compression, he knew that much. He liked the way his chest was flat. Luckily for him, he had been destined for a flat chest no matter what gender he identified with. He finished up with tucking in the shirt and rolling up the sleeves.

“Ready.” Wallet got shoved in his back pocket. John patted his pants to make sure he had everything there as well.

“Sure you don’t want to go,” John asked Molly.

She shook her head no. “You two have a nice time,” she added right before they left.


	7. Chapter 7

“Did I tell you that you looked good,” John asked with a glance over to his friend.

“Yes, actually. Sixth time, I believe.” Bored voice turned on to maximum, eyes straight ahead. “Besides, I should look good in your opinion. You picked out my clothing after all.” That earned Sherlock a soft chuckle from John.

“Who’s going to be here exactly? Remind me since it’s been an hour or so since I was last told.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes; tonight, John was needy. Typically it was him that acted that way, spilling everything about home and being on the fencing -- one secret that John now understood. “Victor said the fencing team and people that they bring. I expect anyone who hears about it. Anyone likes a good party after all. Though, I have homework and you’re keeping it from me tonight,” he muttered, ending with a bit of a sarcastic lilt to his voice.

“You could have stayed,” John scoffed. Then he paused and pointed at Sherlock with a smile. “Nice sarcasm. Besides, I’ll personally _do_ your homework so long as you help me study for the big anatomy test I have.”

“So, you drag me to a party that you _insist_ I go to and for part of my reward for socializing with people I half like, I get to start getting you to pass a basic class. I took anatomy my first year in Uni.”

“Show off,” John muttered.

Sherlock laughed.

The party was already loud when they arrived. People smoking more than cigarettes, obvious drug deals going on in the background, alcohol placed on any surface almost asking to get something slipped into it. Idiots. John leaned in to press his mouth to Sherlock’s ear. “I’m going to get something to drink? Beer alright?” He pulled away just enough to get that nod before rushing off to get something right from the keg. 

John didn’t know any of the other people at the immediate area, so he had no plans on trusting what they had done to the drinks. Some of them he recognized as people who wouldn’t mind taking a piece out of Sherlock, just like how he had met him for the first time. It was stupid to be worried about a man perfectly capable of taking care of himself, but, after today, he couldn’t help but feel a bit protective.

By the time he returned, Victor and a couple of people from the fencing team were around Sherlock. Cutting through, John stood right beside Sherlock to hand him the beer, along be someone there. “You did a really awesome job. Max got close to winning in the men’s division, so I really think we made a good point in showing what we’ve got this year,” a girl said, beaming at Sherlock. One tense smile from Sherlock, along with a nod. That was all before Victor stepped in.

“I think another couple of people came in. You should show them where everything is.” Victor offered up a wide grin as the others left to investigate, then placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “It’s nice to see that you got Sherlock out of his cage.” Double standard for gendering his friend that John paid attention to; bloke one time, woman another. It hurt him like he was sure it hurt Sherlock.

Still, he mustered something up.

“Yeah, mate! I mean, it took a bit of convincing, but here he is, out in the world. Seems like our little boy is growing up,” John shouted with a grin, keeping himself heard by both men over the music.

“Don’t talk about me like I'm not here,” Sherlock shouted at the two of them, struggling to keep his voice deep in the process. One hand went to his hip, the hip slightly popping out, that made John start giggling. “What are you laughing at,” Sherlock snapped, watching as Victor started laughing as well. Huffing as they continued, he took a sip out of the beer John had got him.

Really, he preferred scotch. But he wasn’t going to trust what was set out. Oh, he heard what happened at parties. Not good things, but he pulled himself out of his thoughts as John calmed down to apologize. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, taking another large sip out of the mediocre beer. “You never answered my question, though.”

“It’s... it’s just that you put your hand on your hip and it looked _really_ funny,” John weakly explained.

“You’re not even drunk yet and you’re acting like this.”

This time, Victor started laughing. “I’m getting there, and I can admit that it really was funny. Sorry Sherlock, but it really was.”

“I’m going to leave before you start acting like fools. And John, I’m just going to the bathroom. You don’t need to worry about me like I know you will.” Sherlock kept his beer in his hand as he walked in the direction of the bathroom he had made sure to spot out upon entering the place. He closed the door after a few moment. Only would take a bit of time before John would be done looking at the door and he would be free to do what he had decided upon walking into the party.

Sherlock walked out. John and Victor were talking, smiling a tad over whatever they were going over. Still loud, so that meant no one would hear him. Which was good. He approached one of the blokes that lurked around the back. “What do you have,” he asked.

“What are you looking for?”

“Cocaine.”

That one word and there was an exchange of money for a small packet of powder in his hand. He glanced over it once the guy had left. It seemed real, so he had no worries about being cheated out of his money for something cut with powdered sugar. Sherlock got back to the bathroom and locked the door behind him. No need getting interrupted while doing something illegal.

XXX

“He’s taking a while,” John murmured.

By now, he was on his second cup of beer. He was considering switching to a hard liquor, but he remembered the adage his father had told him as he had grown up. “Beer before liquor, never been sicker.” Always had nodded after he said it, his father. Made him seem like he was completely right in what he was saying.

“Yeah, well, he’s okay. Sometimes he disappears like that when he comes to these things. I swear, he’s a bloody magician. He does know how to do magic tricks, though.” And there he began rambling about Sherlock and magic, two things that barely had anything to do with each other.

Since Sherlock was taking a long time, he could bring what he really wanted to talk about. No need for him to hear and get upset over it.

“Hate to interrupt you, but I want a quick chat about something.”

Victor shut up and nodded his head. “What’s it about? I’d be glad to help you if you need it.”

“No, no. It’s not about me. I’m just a tad bothered about how your most valuable player was misgendered by almost everyone.”

“Oh. That,” Victor muttered, sobering up.

“Can’t you tell that he hates it? That it hurts him? You’re going to lose your player to it. One day, he’s going to realize that he doesn’t _have_ to listen to that and will leave your team behind without a second bloody thought to it. Personally, that’s what I’m thinking about suggesting to him.” The anger was building up in his voice, and with him feeling a tad tipsy, it could just come out.

“There’s nothing I can do about it,” Victor said, sounding rather regretful. “Sherlock technically is a woman. I completely accept him as a bloke and that’s what I want him to be, but legally he’s recognized as a woman. And to be a bloke in fencing, he has to have a sex change and all that stuff until he’s legally recognized as a bloke. I mean, he could go in mixed events, which would definitely help us out in those events. I could bring it up if you want.” He trailed off, shrugging his shoulders. “I know. It sucks. But I literally have no say in the matter. When he came out to me, I looked it up because I realized why he got so aggressive on the floor when he had to fight the chicks.”

John sighed, reaching a hand up to rub his face. “You sure?”

“Very. It’s the rules on these things.”

“Do you think there’s any way that we could try to get that changed or help him on the way to transitioning?”

XXX

One more line. That's all he had left.

Sherlock held the rolled up bill to the edge, finishing it up before leaning against the wall. Couldn’t be any evidence of what he had done. The next testing would be before another event, one of the more serious ones. And cocaine would stay in his body for seven weeks at the most, which meant he’d just drink a bunch of water to try to flush out his system.

The whole world buzzed as he slumped there, smiling a little to himself. Taking a hit of a drug was far easier to deal with than the whole world telling him that he was wrong for knowing that he was a bloke, except he had breasts and a vagina. Two things that apparently made him a girl no matter how hard he tried to present himself as a male. 

Started off by borrowing clothes off Mycroft that didn’t fit his brother anymore. Rebelled against the dress code, which -- for his trouble -- wound up changing the dress code a year after his early graduation. At least Uni didn’t force a dress code upon anyone. One good thing that Uni brought, besides his chance to get away from home.

He brought his hand up to run through the curls that were way too springy for their own good. In the process, the heel of his hand brushed his cheeks. Wetness. Crying. Sherlock felt numb as he slumped further down on the wall, until he was sitting on the ground, knees curled to his chest as he tried to help himself feel as whole as he put on to be.

Then there came the knock.

How long had it been since he had come in? Too long, apparently since he soon heard, “Sherlock? You okay in there?”  
Shit. He still had to clean up. Standing up, he hurriedly began the process of shoving the things away and deep down in the bin that had a few cups in there that easily could store the baggy. The bill was stuffed in his back pocket before he threw open the door. John stumbled forward, looked up, then put on a sheepish smile that soon faded. “You alright?”

“Fine.”

Perhaps something was off in his voice because John was soon closing the door, making it somewhat private since it seemed like a talk was going to have. The pupils. That had to be it. Or how his hands were shaking. It had been a while since his last fix -- he knew when to keep clean and he definitely knew how to handle withdraws because he’d been doing this off and on usage for years now -- so his body had to be reacting far more than it used to.

“Was there something in your drink? I can take you to a clinic if you want me to. You really look wrong.”

“No!” Far too sharp. Tone it done, he instructed himself. “No, it’s fine. I think that drink was a bit too much. I don’t really drink all that much.” His finger tapped against his thigh and he watched as John looked at him worriedly, like the mother hen that he was. “Can we get going? Maybe a bit of fresh air will do me good. And a meal.”

That brightened John. A suggestion to eat never really came around too often, unless John was cajoling him to do it. “Yeah. Where were you thinking that we could go? I’m up for anything, really.”

“There’s this vegetarian place I like,” Sherlock started, “Called Food For Thought. The menu changes daily, so it might be nice to see what they have. And I’m sure that you could find something to eat.”

In reality, he wasn’t hungry. At all. C-Dust did that one. But, by tomorrow when it was all faded and he was left to be a shaking mess, he would be. Meaning he could pick at the food, cut it into little pieces in the way he had perfected. Then take the rest home, and get some other things to stick in the fridge for himself.

“I don’t think you’ve told me about this place. Sure, sounds good. Think it’ll be open.”

“John, we’ve only been at the party for a bit, so I doubt it’s all that late.” At least, he hoped he hadn’t lost that much time in the piece of reveling in his high. “But, come on. It’s a good place and they have things that are good, not just from a vegetarian standpoint.”

His friend raised his hands in a sign of surrender. “Alright. You seem a bit excited, though.” Jumpy even, John thought to himself. He’d seen this before from his mates on the team, the ones that liked to dabble in things they oughtn’t to, cocaine for one. And the idea of Sherlock doing it scared him. He knew all the long term effects of that drug. Not just the whole bit of HIV, but eating and sleeping disorders, the chance of strokes increased, organ failure. When he considered it more, Sherlock already showed the disorders. Rarely slept, always said he wasn’t hungry.

How could he have missed that?

Putting on a quick smile for Sherlock’s restless eyes, he opened the door to let him go through and lead the way to this restaurant. “Go on, then. You’ve got me curious about this place you apparently like.”

“You make it sound like it’s just popped up out of the blue. It’s a pretty inexpensive place, so I ate there when I wanted to get out of my house. Parents never understood the whole bit about how I don’t like to eat meat.”

John nodded his head as he started following, having to jog slightly to keep up as Sherlock shoved through the crowd with more indifference than usual. “Your parents don’t understand a lot of things. A bit old fashioned.”

An out of sort, high pitched laugh, left Sherlock. “Yeah, you’re right on that one. They don’t understand many things.”

And, it seemed, John didn’t understand things about Sherlock either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry that I've taken so long. My senior year seems to be just as taxing as my other ones. Hope this lives up to what you're hoping it to be after such a lengthy wait.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock was most definitely weaving across the path he walked. No way was he walking a straight line. It was like he was drunk, but John knew for sure that he wasn’t; hadn’t had enough alcohol to do that, and it was another certain thing that Sherlock knew how to hold his liquor. Every step he took was unsteady, acting as if he was some teen. Sherlock was a teen, but it wasn’t like he was growing into his limbs anymore. It was odd to watch from John’s point of view, after seeing just how graceful he typically was when he walked.

“You alright,” he finally asked, after having grabbed Sherlock’s arm again to make sure that he was actually steadied and wouldn’t fall over or fall off the side of the street.

“Yeah,” Sherlock answered with a slight frown, “Perfectly fine.”

A lie, Sherlock knew, but it was needed. There was no way he was going to talk about what he had done in the bathroom. Knowing John, the man would freak out and he’d get a lecture, which he’d respond with some sort of snarky comment, and it would just go downhill from there. Still, he knew that John had caught a whiff of something being wrong. He couldn’t be studying to be a doctor without having no clue of the effects of drugs on the body, even the general ones.

“So, how far is this restaurant,” John asked, changing the subject. If Sherlock didn’t want to talk about it, then fine, he didn’t have to. No matter how frustrating it was to watch this spectacle, he couldn’t force Sherlock into anything that Sherlock didn’t want to get himself into. Probably one of the most frustrating things about being friends with the man.

“Not far,” he answered. “It’s on Neal Street. A bit away, but well worth the walk.”

John noted the quickness of those words. Rushed and breathy. The hand by Sherlock’s side -- the one closest to the student -- was twitching, constantly going from relaxed to a fist in a quick manner. Really, he looked like he was about to have some sort of attack with the wild look in his eyes. 

He fought to remain quiet on the topic that was sure to bring Sherlock to some sort of angry state. The longer the actions went on, the harder John found it to stay quiet. A few times he opened his mouth to start something, but he shut himself up. It would do no good forcing his friend to talk.

“Are you sure you’re okay,” he finally asked in a soft voice.

“Of course I’m fine! Stop mothering me.”

That was all that was said.

Lifting a hand, John ran his fingers through the short blond hair in hopes to clear his mind as he walked on. There were a few more people around, more restaurants at least. When Sherlock veered, he did the best to follow into a quaint place that was warm compared to the chill outside. On the tables there were makeshift menus that were just paper, something that went well with the theme of an ever-changing menu. Sherlock got them seated in a corner of the place, near a window so he could stare out while he restlessly tapped his fingers on the table.

“This is nice,” John commented to strike up another attempt at a conversation. “We could come here again, anytime you get hungry.” He did his best to encourage good eating habits, even if it ended up with Sherlock complaining as he grudgingly agreed to it.

“Yes. It is. I came here when I was in secondary school. A good way to get away from the people who bothered me since they never bothered coming to places such as this; not a chain restaurant, something different given that it’s vegetarian, along with following other dietary needs.” This was sure to be some long rambling speech, John soon found out. “Also nice to get out of my parent’s home.”

Never Sherlock’s home. It made John wonder what it was really like there. He’d gotten a brief taste from what Sherlock had briefly mentioned. Parents didn’t like it that he identified as something different than the gender he was born with, especially Sherlock’s father. Seemed that he had wanted a little girl, but Sherlock definitely would never be that. It pained John to hear that Sherlock wasn’t accepted. One day, he’d take him to his house. Mum accepted everyone, even Harry’s drinking friends and her alcoholism. His Da was long gone.

He didn’t bother commenting on what Sherlock said -- best not to bring up painful memories -- and diverted his attention to the menu.

Tofu was on the dinner special, and he didn’t feel particularly adventurous that evening. For a hot dish, some sort of goulash was there. Sounded like his best bet to find something to eat in this place that was definitely more sorted for Sherlock than himself. His dish was vegan, wheat and gluten-free. Hopefully it wouldn’t taste as gross as it sounded.

“What can I get you two,” a server asked, brandishing a pen and pad to take down the order.

“I’ll have the Hungarian goulash,” John answered with a polite smile, “And a water.” She really wasn’t that bad looking. If he wasn’t worried so much for Sherlock, he would have tried for her number.

“Stir fried vegetables. Water as well,” Sherlock answered dully before tucking the menu away without bothering to look at the poor woman, who just rolled her eyes slightly before putting on a smile.

“Orders will be right out,” she said before walking away.

John paused for a few moments until she was out of earshot. “You don’t have to act so rude to her,” he scolded. “Not like she did anything to you besides ask what you bloody wanted for your meal.” Sherlock tensed from where he was at, a clench of his fist as well.

“You know, I don’t appreciate you deciding that apparently I don’t treat people well enough,” Sherlock muttered venomously. “I’m going to treat people how I want to.”

“My parents always taught me to treat others the way you want to be treated. It’s something that people do, Sherlock.” Even he was starting to feel annoyed by the treatment he was getting. Really, he didn’t appreciate being snapped at when he had done nothing to deserve it.

“Well, not all parents are like yours. Some preach that, but when you ‘decide’ to express yourself as something they don’t like, that whole saying just falls apart. Apparently if that someone is a freak, the ‘golden’ rule doesn’t apply to them.”

A sigh left John. “Well, that’s not how it would be at mine, you should know. Mum wouldn’t care at all. She’s one of those people who believes that so long as the other person is happy and you aren’t hurting anyone with your choice, you should go on and do it. The hardest part is not hurting anyone, I’d have to say.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Bloody hell, John sounded like some preacher himself. And it was annoying. His eyes went out the window again, his fingers still drumming across the table without any end in sight to his annoyance over the whole world. People walked around outside, jabbering loudly to their friends while they walked around. Everything was more sensitive, except the pain that was almost constant in his chest. That had faded away as if it wasn’t there anymore, something that he could ignore easier than before.

“Are you even there? I doubt that you’re paying attention to me. It’s just like when you’re talking and I can walk away for a few minutes, and when I come back you’re still bloody talking like I was there the whole time.”

John’s voice came into his hearing. More of an annoyed tone in his opinion. Grating since he’d rather not hear it. Would have been better if he had told John he didn’t feel well and had gone home so he could ride out his high in silence, since he would have snuck out to find somewhere quiet, mainly somewhere that Molly wasn’t.

“I’m here,” he said, “I was just thinking. And you don’t have to just get upset like that.” He tapped his fingers a bit louder with no rhythm to it at all. His goal was just to keep his body moving, even in the smallest way. “You get annoying. Very annoying. Sometimes I wonder how I put up with you.”

John scoffed, raising his eyebrows and leaning forward before he sat back against the chair with his arms crossed over his chest. There was the disbelief. And the fight he always seemed capable of picking. “I’m the annoying one? Most people would have to be on something to even think that.”

Sherlock fell quiet after that comment. He had a feeling that if he spoke, he’d end up incriminating himself. That was one of the things not to do, as he understood. It was best to shut up and let other people think that looks incriminating when it doesn’t always mean that.

The server came back, setting down the steaming meal that John thanked her for out of the habits he was taught. As always, Sherlock said nothing. He just stared. John looked at the goulash for a few moments before dropping the subject they talked on and took a bite of it. Tasted good, that was for sure. Even if it was free of everything that should make it taste like a regular meal. He kept his focus on that while Sherlock’s drumming continued. 

The bloody little drumming boy was here tonight, apparently. John understood that it only came out when Sherlock was annoyed or needed to entertain himself. Which one, he wasn’t sure tonight. He glanced up to see Sherlock not even having touched his meal that smelled good in John’s opinion. Something was definitely wrong.

He needed to connect the dots, that much was for sure. Sherlock wouldn’t just decide to give away what was going on since that was how Sherlock was. Always insisted on being a mystery to the world, with a turned up collar and high cheekbones. Tonight it annoyed John far more than it usually would since he was way out of the loop on whatever was causing it today.

“Eat,” he said, “You did a lot of work out there and you ought to at least try to put something into your body to replenish what you burned.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and didn’t move.

“You’re acting like a git.”

Sherlock shrugged.

John sighed, but he was starting to get a clearer picture. Voice that was off, a mass of energy that came from nowhere, dilated pupils, and he could guess an increased heart rate. Definitely high. And that made him angry. Sherlock put his body through so much hell without the drugs included. Had someone slipped them to him or had he willingly bought and taken some stimulant?

“What are you on,” he asked when he got halfway done with his meal, having treasured the silence that had been there. “I know you’re high, I just want to know what it is you’re on.” Just in case he needed to take Sherlock to a clinic to get him watched after by some professional, since John wasn’t adept with dealing with someone overdosing.

“I’m not on anything,” Sherlock denied. “What the hell would make you think that?” Finally, the tapping stopped. That probably had been the dead give away, minus his dilated pupils; anyone who had any knowledge could understand that was what came with most highs. “Why would you think that,” he repeated. Shit. He tried not to repeat things, which gave away that he wasn’t himself.

“Well, I think you’re high because you’re acting like a bloody maniac. I would usually think that you not eating is normal, but even you have a bit of something after you exercise. Not to mention that if you insist on going to a restaurant, you at least eat a bit of the food that you got,” John said, anger getting the better of him. 

“I’m not high!”

“Yes you bloody are! Did someone slip something in your drink? I doubt it since the only thing you had there was something I got you and I made sure to get it straight from the keg. Did you buy something yourself?”

No way to wiggle out of this one, Sherlock soon found out. John would keep pressing until he got some kind of answer. The student was already sitting up in his chair, leaning forward while Sherlock was leaning way back to get away from the anger. He’d seen anger like this before written on the face of his parents, and it frightened him more than it ought to since he knew John would never strike him.

“Cocaine,” he finally said. “Happy? I’m _fucking_ on cocaine right now and I’ve been using it for a while now.” He was seventeen now. Got introduced to it in Uni, back when he had been about fourteen or fifteen if his memory on his age served him right. “Now you know that you have a friend who gets high with a potent drug.”

John fell silent. So he had been right. First guess that he had made when they had walked around. It still felt like a smack to the face knowing that someone he considered to be his best mate was using the drug most people called the most addictive in the world, all because it made a synthetic dopamine and blocked the real stuff off.

“How long?”

“I already told you. Years.”

“Jesus, Sherlock. Do you know how terrible that is for you? That you could bloody overdose and die anytime you pick up the needle? What about the long-term? Have you thought about that, or even your friends? Probably not since you’re using.”

Sherlock’s teeth gritted together and after a few moments of John just waiting, hanging on desperately for some sort of answer, he lifted his hand and waved their server over. “I need a box,” he said.

John put his face in his hands for a few moments. “Don’t leave. I’m sorry that I shouted at you. We can talk this over when you’re sober, alright? Just don’t leave. I don’t want you to be on your own.” He had some sort of responsibility. After keeping people from smacking Sherlock around, he must find a way to keep Sherlock from himself, didn’t he?

The box came over. Sherlock scraped his food in there. He got out his wallet and laid down a few bills. “I don’t think so,” he said in a low voice, “I’m going to go and you’re going to stay here and pout. If I find out that anyone knows about how I use drugs, I know right where to find the one that did it.” Breathing in deeply -- he fought back a wince -- he stood up and got his things before walking out of the restaurant to leave John there in his angry wake.

For a few moments, John sat there before asking for a box as well. He got out his mobile and pulled up Molly’s number to dial. “Hey,” he said once she picked up, “Are you at your dorm? Great. Sherlock and I got into a bit of a fight, so could you just make sure he’s okay? Yeah, I’m fine. I just want to make sure that he’s fine. He’s a bit off. But don’t worry. Call if something happens. Thanks. You’re a real life saver, Molly. Ta.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to put it out there that Food For Thought is a real restaurant in London on Neal Street. Never been, but it looks really good. Thought I should give it some props for giving me the dishes. [This](http://foodforthought-london.co.uk/menu.html) is their menu.
> 
> Also, apologies if this chapter was a tad choppy. The website I use to refine my work decided to be a dick.


End file.
